75.The Cloud.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,From the seas and the streams;I bear light shade for the leaves when laidIn their noon-day dreams.From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet buds every one,When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,As she dances about the sun.I wield the flail of the lashing hail,And whiten the green plains under,And then again I dissolve it in rain,And laugh as I pass in thunder.I sift the snow on the mountains below,And their great pines groan aghast;And all the night 'tis my pillow white,While I sleep in the arms of the blast.Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,Lightning my pilot sits,In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,It struggles and howls at fits;Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,This pilot is guiding me,Lured by the love of the genii that moveIn the depths of the purple sea;Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,Over the lakes and the plains,Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,The Spirit he loves remains;And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,Whilst he is dissolving in rains.The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,And his burning plumes outspread,Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,When the morning star shines dead,As on the jag of a mountain crag,Which an earthquake rocks and swings,An eagle alit one moment may sitIn the light of its golden wings.And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,Its ardours of rest and of love,And the crimson pall of eve may fallFrom the depth of heaven above,With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,As still as a brooding dove.That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,Whom mortals call the moon,Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,By the midnight breezes strewn;And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,Which only the angels hear,May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,The stars peep behind her and peer;And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,Like a swarm of golden bees,When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,Are each paved with the moon and these.I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,Over a torrent sea,Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,The mountains its columns be.The triumphal arch through which I marchWith hurricane, fire, and snow,When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,Is the million-coloured bow;The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,While the moist earth was laughing below.I am the daughter of earth and water,And the nursling of the sky;I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;I change, but I cannot die.For after the rain when with never a stain,The pavilion of heaven is bare,And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams,Build up the blue dome of air,I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,And out of the caverns of rain,Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,I arise and unbuild it again.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,From the seas and the streams;I bear light shade for the leaves when laidIn their noon-day dreams.From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet buds every one,When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,As she dances about the sun.I wield the flail of the lashing hail,And whiten the green plains under,And then again I dissolve it in rain,And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,And their great pines groan aghast;And all the night 'tis my pillow white,While I sleep in the arms of the blast.Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,Lightning my pilot sits,In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,It struggles and howls at fits;Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,This pilot is guiding me,Lured by the love of the genii that moveIn the depths of the purple sea;Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,Over the lakes and the plains,Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,The Spirit he loves remains;And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,And his burning plumes outspread,Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,When the morning star shines dead,As on the jag of a mountain crag,Which an earthquake rocks and swings,An eagle alit one moment may sitIn the light of its golden wings.And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,Its ardours of rest and of love,And the crimson pall of eve may fallFrom the depth of heaven above,With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,As still as a brooding dove.
That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,Whom mortals call the moon,Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,By the midnight breezes strewn;And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,Which only the angels hear,May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,The stars peep behind her and peer;And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,Like a swarm of golden bees,When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,Over a torrent sea,Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,The mountains its columns be.The triumphal arch through which I marchWith hurricane, fire, and snow,When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,Is the million-coloured bow;The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,And the nursling of the sky;I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;I change, but I cannot die.For after the rain when with never a stain,The pavilion of heaven is bare,And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams,Build up the blue dome of air,I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,And out of the caverns of rain,Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,I arise and unbuild it again.
76.To a Skylark.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from heaven, or near it,Pourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springestLike a cloud of fire;The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.In the golden lightningOf the sunken sun,O'er which clouds are brightning,Thou dost float and run;Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heaven,In the broad day-lightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.What thou art we know not;What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to see,As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:Like a glow-worm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aërial hueAmong the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflowered,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves:Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awakened flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass:Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus Hymenæal,Or triumphal chaunt,Matched with thine would be allBut an empty vaunt,A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.Waking or asleep,Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?We look before and after,And pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.Yet if we could scornHate, and pride, and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from heaven, or near it,Pourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springestLike a cloud of fire;The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightningOf the sunken sun,O'er which clouds are brightning,Thou dost float and run;Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heaven,In the broad day-lightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,
Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not;What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to see,As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aërial hueAmong the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflowered,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves:
Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awakened flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass:
Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus Hymenæal,Or triumphal chaunt,Matched with thine would be allBut an empty vaunt,A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,And pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scornHate, and pride, and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
77.Chorus from 'Hellas.'
The world's great age begins anew,The golden years return,The earth doth like a snake renewHer winter weeds outworn:Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam,Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.A brighter Hellas rears its mountainsFrom waves serener far;A new Peneus rolls his fountainsAgainst the morning-star.Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleepYoung Cyclads on a sunnier deep.A loftier Argo cleaves the main,Fraught with a later prize;Another Orpheus sings again,And loves, and weeps, and dies.A new Ulysses leaves once moreCalypso for his native shore.O, write no more the tale of Troy,If earth Death's scroll must be!Nor mix with Laian rage the joyWhich dawns upon the free:Although a subtler Sphinx renewRiddles of death Thebes never knew.Another Athens shall arise,And to remoter timeBequeath, like sunset to the skies,The splendour of its prime;And leave, if nought so bright may live,All earth can take or Heaven can give.Saturn and Love their long reposeShall burst, more bright and goodThan all who fell, than One who rose,Than many unsubdued:Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,But votive tears and symbol flowers.O cease! must hate and death return?Cease! must men kill and die?Cease! drain not to its dregs the urnOf bitter prophecy.The world is weary of the past,O might it die or rest at last!
The world's great age begins anew,The golden years return,The earth doth like a snake renewHer winter weeds outworn:Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam,Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.
A brighter Hellas rears its mountainsFrom waves serener far;A new Peneus rolls his fountainsAgainst the morning-star.Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleepYoung Cyclads on a sunnier deep.
A loftier Argo cleaves the main,Fraught with a later prize;Another Orpheus sings again,And loves, and weeps, and dies.A new Ulysses leaves once moreCalypso for his native shore.
O, write no more the tale of Troy,If earth Death's scroll must be!Nor mix with Laian rage the joyWhich dawns upon the free:Although a subtler Sphinx renewRiddles of death Thebes never knew.
Another Athens shall arise,And to remoter timeBequeath, like sunset to the skies,The splendour of its prime;And leave, if nought so bright may live,All earth can take or Heaven can give.
Saturn and Love their long reposeShall burst, more bright and goodThan all who fell, than One who rose,Than many unsubdued:Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,But votive tears and symbol flowers.
O cease! must hate and death return?Cease! must men kill and die?Cease! drain not to its dregs the urnOf bitter prophecy.The world is weary of the past,O might it die or rest at last!
78.Stanzas. Written in Dejection, near Naples.
I.The sun is warm, the sky is clear,The waves are dancing fast and bright,Blue isles and snowy mountains wearThe purple noon's transparent might,The breath of the moist earth is light,Around its unexpanded buds;Like many a voice of one delight,The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.II.I see the Deep's untrampled floorWith green and purple seaweeds strown;I see the waves upon the shore,Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:I sit upon the sands alone,The lightning of the noon-tide oceanIs flashing round me, and a toneArises from its measured motion,How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.III.Alas! I have nor hope nor health,Nor peace within nor calm around,Nor that content surpassing wealthThe sage in meditation found,And walked with inward glory crowned—Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.Others I see whom these surround—Smiling they live and call life pleasure;—To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.IV.Yet now despair itself is mild,Even as the winds and waters are;I could lie down like a tired child,And weep away the life of careWhich I have borne and yet must bear,Till death like sleep might steal on me,And I might feel in the warm airMy cheek grow cold, and hear the seaBreathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.V.Some might lament that I were cold,As I, when this sweet day is gone,Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,Insults with this untimely moan;They might lament—for I am oneWhom men love not,—and yet regret,Unlike this day, which, when the sunShall in its stainless glory set,Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.
I.
The sun is warm, the sky is clear,The waves are dancing fast and bright,Blue isles and snowy mountains wearThe purple noon's transparent might,The breath of the moist earth is light,Around its unexpanded buds;Like many a voice of one delight,The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.
II.
I see the Deep's untrampled floorWith green and purple seaweeds strown;I see the waves upon the shore,Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:I sit upon the sands alone,The lightning of the noon-tide oceanIs flashing round me, and a toneArises from its measured motion,How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
III.
Alas! I have nor hope nor health,Nor peace within nor calm around,Nor that content surpassing wealthThe sage in meditation found,And walked with inward glory crowned—Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.Others I see whom these surround—Smiling they live and call life pleasure;—To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
IV.
Yet now despair itself is mild,Even as the winds and waters are;I could lie down like a tired child,And weep away the life of careWhich I have borne and yet must bear,Till death like sleep might steal on me,And I might feel in the warm airMy cheek grow cold, and hear the seaBreathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
V.
Some might lament that I were cold,As I, when this sweet day is gone,Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,Insults with this untimely moan;They might lament—for I am oneWhom men love not,—and yet regret,Unlike this day, which, when the sunShall in its stainless glory set,Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.
79.TheIndian Serenade.
I.I arise from dreams of theeIn the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright:I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHath led me—who knows how?To thy chamber window, Sweet!II.The wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream—And the Champak's odours failLike sweet thoughts in a dream;The nightingale's complaint,It dies upon her heart;—As I must on thine,O! belovèd as thou art!III.O lift me from the grass!I die! I faint! I fail!Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast;—Oh! press it to thine own again,Where it will break at last.
I.
I arise from dreams of theeIn the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright:I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHath led me—who knows how?To thy chamber window, Sweet!
II.
The wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream—And the Champak's odours failLike sweet thoughts in a dream;The nightingale's complaint,It dies upon her heart;—As I must on thine,O! belovèd as thou art!
III.
O lift me from the grass!I die! I faint! I fail!Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast;—Oh! press it to thine own again,Where it will break at last.
80.To ——.
I.I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden,Thou needest not fear mine;My spirit is too deeply ladenEver to burthen thine.II.I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion,Thou needest not fear mine;Innocent is the heart's devotionWith which I worship thine.
I.
I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden,Thou needest not fear mine;My spirit is too deeply ladenEver to burthen thine.
II.
I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion,Thou needest not fear mine;Innocent is the heart's devotionWith which I worship thine.
81.To Night.
I.Swiftly walk over the western wave,Spirit of Night!Out of the misty eastern cave,Where all the long and lone daylight,Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,Which make thee terrible and dear,—Swift be thy flight!II.Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,Star-inwrought!Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;Kiss her until she be wearied out,Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,Touching all with thine opiate wand—Come, long sought!III.When I arose and saw the dawn,I sigh'd for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone,And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,And the weary Day turned to his rest,Lingering like an unloved guest,I sighed for thee.IV.Thy brother Death came, and cried,Wouldst thou me?Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,Murmured like a noon-tide bee,Shall I nestle near thy side?Wouldst thou me?—And I replied,No, not thee!V.Death will come when thou art dead,Soon, too soon—Sleep will come when thou art fled;Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, belovèd Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!Buxton Forman's Text.
I.
Swiftly walk over the western wave,Spirit of Night!Out of the misty eastern cave,Where all the long and lone daylight,Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,Which make thee terrible and dear,—Swift be thy flight!
II.
Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,Star-inwrought!Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;Kiss her until she be wearied out,Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,Touching all with thine opiate wand—Come, long sought!
III.
When I arose and saw the dawn,I sigh'd for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone,And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,And the weary Day turned to his rest,Lingering like an unloved guest,I sighed for thee.
IV.
Thy brother Death came, and cried,Wouldst thou me?Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,Murmured like a noon-tide bee,Shall I nestle near thy side?Wouldst thou me?—And I replied,No, not thee!
V.
Death will come when thou art dead,Soon, too soon—Sleep will come when thou art fled;Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, belovèd Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon!
Buxton Forman's Text.
82.Song from 'Ajax and Ulysses.'
The glories of our blood and stateAre shadows, not substantial things;There is no armour against fate;Death lays his icy hand on kings:Sceptre and crownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crooked scythe and spade.Some men with swords may reap the field,And plant fresh laurels where they kill;But their strong nerves at last must yield;They tame but one another still:Early or late,They stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breath,When they, pale captives, creep to death.The garlands wither on your brow,Then boast no more your mighty deeds;Upon Death's purple altar now,See, where the victor-victim bleeds:Your heads must comeTo the cold tomb,Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in their dust.Dyce's Text.
The glories of our blood and stateAre shadows, not substantial things;There is no armour against fate;Death lays his icy hand on kings:Sceptre and crownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,And plant fresh laurels where they kill;But their strong nerves at last must yield;They tame but one another still:Early or late,They stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breath,When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,Then boast no more your mighty deeds;Upon Death's purple altar now,See, where the victor-victim bleeds:Your heads must comeTo the cold tomb,Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
Dyce's Text.
83.Stanzas.
1.My days among the Dead are past;Around me I behold,Where'er these casual eyes are castThe mighty minds of old;My never failing friends are they,With whom I converse day by day.2.With them I take delight in weal,And seek relief in woe;And while I understand and feelHow much to them I owe,My cheeks have often been bedew'dWith tears of thoughtful gratitude.3.My thoughts are with the Dead, with themI live in long-past years,Their virtues love, their faults condemn,Partake their hopes and fears,And from their lessons seek and findInstruction with an humble mind.4.My hopes are with the Dead, anonMy place with them will be,And I with them shall travel onThrough all Futurity;Yet leaving here a name, I trust,That will not perish in the dust.1837 Edition.
1.
My days among the Dead are past;Around me I behold,Where'er these casual eyes are castThe mighty minds of old;My never failing friends are they,With whom I converse day by day.
2.
With them I take delight in weal,And seek relief in woe;And while I understand and feelHow much to them I owe,My cheeks have often been bedew'dWith tears of thoughtful gratitude.
3.
My thoughts are with the Dead, with themI live in long-past years,Their virtues love, their faults condemn,Partake their hopes and fears,And from their lessons seek and findInstruction with an humble mind.
4.
My hopes are with the Dead, anonMy place with them will be,And I with them shall travel onThrough all Futurity;Yet leaving here a name, I trust,That will not perish in the dust.
1837 Edition.
84.Requiem.
Under the wide and starry sky,Dig the grave and let me lie.Glad did I live and gladly die,And I laid me down with a will.This be the verse you grave for me:Here he lies where he longed to be;Home is the sailor, home from sea,And the hunter home from the hill.1887 Edition.
Under the wide and starry sky,Dig the grave and let me lie.Glad did I live and gladly die,And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:Here he lies where he longed to be;Home is the sailor, home from sea,And the hunter home from the hill.
1887 Edition.
85.Song from 'The Miller's Daughter.'
It is the miller's daughter,And she is grown so dear, so dear,That I would be the jewelThat trembles in her ear:For hid in ringlets day and night,I'd touch her neck so warm and white.And I would be the girdleAbout her dainty dainty waist,And her heart would beat against me,In sorrow and in rest:And I should know if it beat right,I'd clasp it round so close and tight.And I would be the necklace,And all day long to fall and riseUpon her balmy bosom,With her laughter or her sighs,And I would lie so light, so light,I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.
It is the miller's daughter,And she is grown so dear, so dear,That I would be the jewelThat trembles in her ear:For hid in ringlets day and night,I'd touch her neck so warm and white.
And I would be the girdleAbout her dainty dainty waist,And her heart would beat against me,In sorrow and in rest:And I should know if it beat right,I'd clasp it round so close and tight.
And I would be the necklace,And all day long to fall and riseUpon her balmy bosom,With her laughter or her sighs,And I would lie so light, so light,I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.
86.St. Agnes' Eve.
Deep on the convent-roof the snowsAre sparkling to the moon:My breath to heaven like vapour goes:May my soul follow soon!The shadows of the convent-towersSlant down the snowy sward,Still creeping with the creeping hoursThat lead me to my Lord:Make Thou my spirit pure and clearAs are the frosty skies,Or this first snowdrop of the yearThat in my bosom lies.As these white robes are soil'd and dark,To yonder shining ground;As this pale taper's earthly spark,To yonder argent round;So shows my soul before the Lamb,My spirit before Thee;So in mine earthly house I am,To that I hope to be.Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,Thro' all yon starlight keen,Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,In raiment white and clean.He lifts me to the golden doors;The flashes come and go;All heaven bursts her starry floors,And strows her lights below,And deepens on and up! the gatesRoll back, and far withinFor me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,To make me pure of sin.The sabbaths of Eternity,One sabbath deep and wide—A light upon the shining sea—The Bridegroom with his bride!
Deep on the convent-roof the snowsAre sparkling to the moon:My breath to heaven like vapour goes:May my soul follow soon!The shadows of the convent-towersSlant down the snowy sward,Still creeping with the creeping hoursThat lead me to my Lord:Make Thou my spirit pure and clearAs are the frosty skies,Or this first snowdrop of the yearThat in my bosom lies.
As these white robes are soil'd and dark,To yonder shining ground;As this pale taper's earthly spark,To yonder argent round;So shows my soul before the Lamb,My spirit before Thee;So in mine earthly house I am,To that I hope to be.Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,Thro' all yon starlight keen,Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,In raiment white and clean.
He lifts me to the golden doors;The flashes come and go;All heaven bursts her starry floors,And strows her lights below,And deepens on and up! the gatesRoll back, and far withinFor me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,To make me pure of sin.The sabbaths of Eternity,One sabbath deep and wide—A light upon the shining sea—The Bridegroom with his bride!
87.Break, break, break.
Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.O well for the fisherman's boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor lad.That he sings in his boat on the bay!And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.
Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor lad.That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.
88.Song from 'ThePrincess.'
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,Tears from the depth of some divine despairRise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,And thinking of the days that are no more.Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,That brings our friends up from the underworld,Sad as the last which reddens over oneThat sinks with all we love below the verge;So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawnsThe earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering square;So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.Dear as remember'd kisses after death,And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'dOn lips that are for others; deep as love,Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,Tears from the depth of some divine despairRise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,That brings our friends up from the underworld,Sad as the last which reddens over oneThat sinks with all we love below the verge;So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawnsThe earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering square;So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember'd kisses after death,And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'dOn lips that are for others; deep as love,Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
89.Song from 'The Princess.'
Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shapeWith fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee?Ask me no more.Ask me no more: what answer should I give?I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;Ask me no more.Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd:I strove against the stream and all in vain:Let the great river take me to the main:No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shapeWith fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee?Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: what answer should I give?I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd:I strove against the stream and all in vain:Let the great river take me to the main:No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;Ask me no more.
90.Crossing the Bar.
Sunset and evening star,And one clear call for me!And may there be no moaning of the bar,When I put out to sea,But such a tide as moving seems asleep,Too full for sound and foam,When that which drew from out the boundless deepTurns again home.Twilight and evening bell,And after that the dark!And may there be no sadness of farewell,When I embark;For tho' from out our bourne of Time and PlaceThe flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to faceWhen I have crost the bar.1902 Edition.
Sunset and evening star,And one clear call for me!And may there be no moaning of the bar,When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,Too full for sound and foam,When that which drew from out the boundless deepTurns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,And after that the dark!And may there be no sadness of farewell,When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and PlaceThe flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to faceWhen I have crost the bar.
1902 Edition.
91.On a Girdle.
That which her slender waist confined,Shall now my joyful temples bind:No monarch but would give his crown,His arms might do what this has done.It was my heaven's extremest sphere,The pale which held that lovely deer.My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,Did all within this circle move!A narrow compass! and yet thereDwelt all that's good, and all that's fair:Give me but what this ribbon bound,Take all the rest the sun goes round.
That which her slender waist confined,Shall now my joyful temples bind:No monarch but would give his crown,His arms might do what this has done.
It was my heaven's extremest sphere,The pale which held that lovely deer.My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,Did all within this circle move!
A narrow compass! and yet thereDwelt all that's good, and all that's fair:Give me but what this ribbon bound,Take all the rest the sun goes round.
92.Song.
Go, lovely Rose!Tell her that wastes her time and me,That now she knows,When I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.Tell her that's young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That hadst thou sprungIn deserts, where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired:Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.Then die! that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee,How small a part of time they shareThat are so wondrous sweet and fair!1822 Edition.
Go, lovely Rose!Tell her that wastes her time and me,That now she knows,When I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That hadst thou sprungIn deserts, where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired:Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.
Then die! that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee,How small a part of time they shareThat are so wondrous sweet and fair!
1822 Edition.
93.She dwelt among the untrodden ways
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove,A Maid whom there were none to praiseAnd very few to love:A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye!—Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and, oh,The difference to me!
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove,A Maid whom there were none to praiseAnd very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye!—Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and, oh,The difference to me!
94.She was aPhantom of delight
She was a Phantom of delightWhen first she gleamed upon my sight;A lovely Apparition, sentTo be a moment's ornament;Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful Dawn;A dancing Shape, an Image gay,To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.I saw her upon nearer view,A Spirit, yet a Woman too!Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin-liberty;A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A Creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food;For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine;A Being breathing thoughtful breath,A Traveller between life and death;The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;A perfect Woman, nobly planned,To warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of angelic light.
She was a Phantom of delightWhen first she gleamed upon my sight;A lovely Apparition, sentTo be a moment's ornament;Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful Dawn;A dancing Shape, an Image gay,To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view,A Spirit, yet a Woman too!Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin-liberty;A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A Creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food;For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine;A Being breathing thoughtful breath,A Traveller between life and death;The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;A perfect Woman, nobly planned,To warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of angelic light.
95.Sonnets.PART I.—XXXIII.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:Little we see in Nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;The winds that will be howling at all hours,And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;For this, for everything, we are out of tune;It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather beA Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:Little we see in Nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;The winds that will be howling at all hours,And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;For this, for everything, we are out of tune;It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather beA Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.